
Class TS^ftA^ 
Copyright^ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT; 



immiiii iMH i iii 



POEMS BY CHARLES W. HUBNER 



POEMS 



BY 

CHARLES W. HUBNER 

Author of "Representative Southern Poets/* "His- 
torical Souvenirs of Luther/' "Modern Com- 
munism/' "Poems and Essays/' "War 
Poets of the South/' Etc. 



NEW YORK AND WASHINGTON 

THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 

J906 



^s 



^ 



%s 



UFWARY of CONGRESS 
Two Conies Received 

AUG 27 1906 

—Copy right entry 
CLAS§f CL XXc. No. 
COPY B. * 



Copyright, 1906 
By The Neale Publishing Company 



r 

i 

i 



DEDICATION 

My songs ! though little be your worth, 
With hopeful heart I send you forth, 
To seek and, maybe, find your goal — 
Some tender heart, some trusting soul ; 
If you are welcomed, sing to these 
Of love and faith, of hope and peace ; 
Show them the stars above life's gloom, 
The Angel at the open tomb. 
A quickening thought, an earnest word, 
The music of some simple chord, 
May help to conquer care and dole, 
Revive and cheer some fainting soul ; 
My songs ! if such the goal you gain, 
Surely you've not fared forth in vain. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE. 

Dedication 5 

A Tragedy of the 

Street 9 

Voices of Spring 14 

The Singer 22 

Resurrection 23 

Spring Blossoms 25 

The Church of the 

Future 28 

The Soul and the 

Stars 32 

The Old School-house. 34 

My Library 38 

When We Were 

Twenty-one 40 

The Genesis of Thought 42 

Fortune's Greatest Gift 47 

Reconciliation 49 

Life and Love 51 

Tallulah 52 

At Manhood's Thresh- 
old 56 

Lily of the Valley 58 



PAGE. 

The Voices 60 

Robert Burns 61 

Crowning Our Dead.... 63 

In a City Cemetery.... 66 

The Blessed Man 69 

True Art 72 

A Noble Life 74 

Growing Old 76 

A Wayside Flower 78 

Street Sparrows 81 

The Voice of God 83 

Do Thou Thy Best 85 

The Poet and His 

Songs 87 

The Czar 88 

Edgar Allan Poe 89 

Genius 91 

Henry Timrod 92 

Sidney Lanier 93 

Walt Whitman 94 

To a Caged Eagle 95 

Bird Song at Sea 99 

Old Songs 102 



QUATRAINS 



PAGE. 

Ambition vs. Content.. 103 

The World 103 

To a Modern Diogenes 103 

Duty 103 

The True Life 104 

The Bible 104 

My Creed 104 

Perfect Love 104 

The Inexpressible: 105 

Sorrow and Love 105 

Sea and Mght 105 

Truth 105 

The Golden Rod 106 

The Rose 106 

The Lily 106 



PAGE. 

Beauty 106 

Genius 107 

Stars and Weed- 
Flowers 107 

Wild Violets 107 

Light in Darkness 107 

A Question 108 

Genius and Art 108 

Fame 108 

Life 108 

Poetry 109 

Exiled 109 

Hope 109 

Faith 109 

Beauty and Poetry no 



A TRAGEDY OF THE STREET 

Among the local items of a New York City paper was 
the following paragraph : 

"A young woman, with an infant at her breast, was 
found dead this morning on Fifth Avenue. They had 
evidently frozen to death during the intense cold which 
prevailed last night." 

"Found dead in the street" — God! can it be? 

Think of it, women and men ; 
Ah, in re-telling the tragedy, 

How feebly falters the pen ! 

Madame, you noticed the comical way 

Your driver crouched in his seat, 
As you sat, last night, in your sumptuous sleigh, 

And dashed through the ringing street ; 

You said to him, "John, you're freezing, I fear. 
Wrap up in your robe for your life \" 

And his answer fell dull on your muffled ear, 
"The cold cuts as keen as a knife." 

"Keen as a knife," was the man's queer phrase ; 

You smiled, but somehow the tone 
Kept rhythmic time with your horses' pace, 

Till it seemed like a wearisome moan. 



And the same thought, doubtless, could we but 
know, 

Was moaned to the pitiless blast, 
By the dead heart there, as the sleety snow 

Was sealing her lips, as you passed. 

Stop ! you are stepping upon her rags — 

Here the poor wanderer lies, 
Just as she fell on the slippery flags, 

Never again to arise. 

"What's in the bundle she clutches so tight, 

Under her thin, frozen cape?" 
"Something she stole in the course of the night — " 

"Merciful God ! 'tis a babe." 

"Can you not wrench her stiff fingers away? 

God grant it be not too late !" 
"Feel for the heart — does it beat ? Speak, pray — " 

"Madame, the little one's dead." 

"Found dead in the street" — God ! can it be ? 

Think of it, women and men ; 
Ah, in re-telling the tragedy, 

How feebly falters the pen ! 

"Policeman, where did she live?" "Don't know." 

"What is her name ?" "Can't say, 
Found her this morning, dead in the snow," 

He says, in his curt, callous way. 

10 



What does it matter to know her name, 

Now that her spirit has fled — 
"She was a pauper, a daughter of shame — " 

Silence ! revile not the dead. 

Passion, depravity, hunger, despair, 
Wrought her doom, swiftly and well, 

Scorching and scarring, what God made fair, 
With the hot lava of hell. 

Shrink not, nor gather your flounces up 

With such an artistical start ; 
'Twas daintily done, but, I beg you, drop 

The mask from your woman's heart. 

Think of your baby, your blue-eyed elf, 

At home in her nest of down, 
The miniature image of your fair self, 

Love's blissful fruition and crown. 

Often your glad, dreaming spirit has stood, 

Alone with the dim years afar, 
Tracing her life to her womanhood, 

As men trace the course of a star. 

The years will go, and the years will come ; 

Soon, as a bride, she will go 
Laughing away from her childhood home, 

To return — when — how ? Do you know ? 

ii 



Madame, this outcast at your feet, 

Lay once on a mother's breast, 
An innocent baby, as fair and sweet 

As yours in her cradle-nest. 

Behold her now. See, where she lies 

Dead, with a babe at her breast ! 
Stared at in horror by hundreds of eyes, 

Waiting the coroner's quest. 

"Who is to blame for this terrible thing? 

Her blood at some threshold lies ;" 
"Rich rogues run free, while poor rogues swing," 

Quotes the world, as it winks its eyes. 

"She was a pauper, a daughter of shame, 
The dupe of some scoundrel unknown — " 

Ah, madame, I fear there are others to blame, 
Not the doubled-dyed villain alone ! 

Society branded her "outcast," locked 
Against her its doors, when she fell, 

Moralized glibly, confessed itself "shocked," 
Blessed itself, wondered, and — "well ?" 

That's all ; not a curse for the heartless hound. 
No spurning for him from the door, 

No gibbet in all the wide world to be found 
For him — he's rich, she was poor. 



12 



"Black-hearted villain! May Heaven's dire 
curse — " 
"Hush, let us finish our stroll ; 
See, down the street rolls the morgue's rude 
hearse — " 
"Jesus, receive her poor soul !" 



13 



VOICES OF SPRING 



FIRST VOICE 



Over the mountains and meadows and dells, 

Glory is breaking, 
Everywhere, sweeter than chiming of bells, 

Music is waking. 



SECOND VOICE 



Fountains leap 

In their glee, 
Rivers sweep 

Broader, swifter to the sea. 



THIRD VOICE 



Rush the rills, 

Madly free, 
From the hills ; 

Brooks with silver braid the lea. 



FOURTH VOICE 



Whence comes this bliss ? And why should it be ? 

What calls this great joy forth? 
Whose power compelled rude winter to flee? 

Who rules the happy earth ? 



14 



FIFTH VOICE 

The Spring, the Spring! 

CHORUS 

The Spring, beautiful Spring! 

THE WIND SPIRIT 

My wings, which have borne me from far South 

seas, 
Perfumed with their breath, o'er the world I wave ; 
I bring bird-songs and the droning of bees, 
I fondle the flowers, I toy with the trees ; 

With shout and with laughter, 

I follow swift after 
Echo, and chase the coy nymph to her cave ; 

I whistle in the tree-tops, 

I frolic in the grass, 

And into ardent lovers' ears 

Breathe fancies as they pass ; 

I scatter fragrance everywhere ; 

Yon tall cloud-pillars of the air, 

I carry on my mighty wings ; 

The silence of the woods I break 

With fairy-music, and I wake 
The sylvan pine-harp's sad, sonorous strings ; 
I spread a feast of music, love and cheer. 



15 



CHORUS 

Because the Spring, the Queen of earth is here ! 

THE RAIN SPIRIT 

From the rose's heart and the violet's lip, 
And the silver chalice of lilies, that dip 
Their lustrous leaves into rivers and rills ; 
From the lakes that lie in the heart of the hills, 
From gulf and bay, and creek and river, 

And from the sea, 

The moon-chained sea, 
Who writhes and raves and roars to be free,, 
But is doomed to be chained to the moon forever — 
From all of these I take what I please, 
And gather showers to sprinkle the flowers, 
To ripen the fruits, to water the woods, 
And woo golden grain from the teeming plain. 

CHORUS 

Rejoice! Rejoice! Rejoice! 
Our hymns shall praise the rain; 
We thank thee, lovely Spring, 
For bringing it again. 



16 



THE SUN 

Nearer to earth, to gladden the hearts of earth's 
peoples, 
Spring's irresistible power my chariot has 
drawn ; 
Brighter the flame that goldenly glows on. the 
steeples, 
Marking my going at evening, my coming at 
dawn; 
Lovelier the clouds that trail in the wake of my 
glory, 
Bluer the firmament where as a monarch I 
move, 
Fairer the worlds beneath me, around me, and o'er 
me, 
Wheeling to music supernal, and vocal with 
love. 

THE MOON 

Not like one by darkness overtaken, 

In some trackless waste, forlorn, forsaken, 

Do I grope my way across the sky, 

As I did when winter ruled the world, 

For the banners of his storms are furled ; 

Fearful now no more I fly, 

Hid in black clouds from the eye ; 

Happy news has reached my ears, 

Spring has broken Winter's spears ; 



17 



Glorious victory hath she won, 
For the world I shine upon ; 
Glad I yield to her desires ; 
When in heaven my watch I keep, 
I will, to the sound of lyres, 
And the light of starry fires, 
Guide the feet of Love on earth, and lull the lids 
of Sleep. 

A VOICE 

The groves, the streams, the gleaming rills, 
The bloomy meads, the verdant hills, 
The woodland pools, the shimmering sea, 
Owe their new splendor, Spring, to thee. 

CHORUS 

Praise to the Spring for this, and all the boundless 
bliss, 

That out of skyey founts forever flows ; 
All who love love Spring's very feet should kiss, 

And happy he who her glad spirit knows. 

FLOWER SPIRITS 

We are the children of the Spring, 

From garden, field and grove, 
We come, and fragrant blossoms bring, 

As tokens of our love; 



18 



The crocus, violet and rose, 
Attend her wheresoe'er she goes, 
And even the wild-flowers love her well, 
They follow her through glade and dell, 
Or from their coverts smile on her, 
Because she is so good and fair ; 
Yea, good is she, and fair and sweet, 
We crown her head and kiss her feet. 

THE SPRING 

Voices and Spirits of air, of earth and of sea, 
Praise unto God be given, but not unto me; 
Out of the fathomless depths of His infinite soul, 
Limitless cycles of ages eternally roll, 
Backward and forward they swing, from darkness 

to light, 
Swayed by the breath of His mouth and the arm 

of His might ; 
I am a drop in a measureless ocean of years, 
Only an atom, adrift in the light of the spheres ; 
Out of this world and its splendor forever I pass, 
Trackless and swift as the glinting of wind-blown 

grass ; 
All that I am in beauty, in brightness and power, 
Is but the perishing dust of a perishing hour ; 
For blessings thank me not, 
God is the Giver; 



19 



Ephemeral is my lot, 
I go, and am forgot ; 
The Lord of Heaven and Earth will reign forever ! 

CHORUS OF SPIRITS AND VOICES 

The Lord of Heaven and Earth will reign forever ! 

Let Heaven and Earth in worship blended be; 
Sing to thy deep-toned harp, majestic river! 

Thy storm-blown trumpets sound, O mighty sea ! 
Ye peaks, that pierce the clouds like sun-lit lances ! 

Ye tempest-thunders of the flaming skies ! 
Ye vales, through which the hill-stream shouts 
and dances ! 

Ye hoary forests, dim with mysteries ! 
Ye rolling clouds, ye orbs of starry fire ! 
Rejoice, and join the universal choir! 

A VOICE 

"The earth is the Lord's and the fullness thereof, 
The world and all that dwell therein." 

CHORUS 

Hearken, all ye people ! blend your voices in accord 
With the organ's solemn music, in the temples of 
the Lord ! 



20 



FIRST VOICE 

In His honor, on your altars, feed for aye their 
incense flame. 

SECOND VOICE 

Praise Jehovah ! Halleluiah ! 

CHORUS 

Glory, Glory to His name ! 



21 



THE SINGER 

He sang, as birds in Springtime sing, 

From a full heart and free; 
The good that bides in everything, 

He had the eyes to see. 

He sang of love, of hope, of faith, 

In many a noble stave ; 
His songs made fair the face of death, 

And bright the gruesome grave. 

One day his eyes grew strangely dim, 

And dumb in death he lay ; 
With few to care or weep for him, 

The Singer passed away. 

His life, his work, on earth were done, 

He never sang again ; 
But something of his soul had gone 

Into the hearts of men. 

And fairer now, than they had been, 

Seem earth, and sea, and sky, 
True hearts still keep his memory green- 

The Singer cannot die. 



RESURRECTION 

"I am the resurrection and the life" — 

Dear words, divinely blest ! 
Even Nature owns their truth ; their power is rife 

Within her throbbing breast ; 
"Awake ! Come forth !" I hear her softly call, 

"Out of thy grave arise !" 
And straightway Spring, discarding shroud and 
pall, 

Opens her wondering eyes. 

Placing mine ear close to the humid ground, 

I hear the grasses grow, 
And through the tree-boles runs a pleasant sound, 

It is the sap, aflow. 
A silvery sound, as of clashed steel and spear, 

Pervades the porous mould — 
The fairy legions of the Spring draw near, 

Behold their crests of gold ! 

Earth clothes herself in robes of richest hue, 

Which with the rainbow's vies, 
And, when I look above, a softer blue 

Beams from the splendid skies ; 
On the whole world Love's benediction rests, 

The very birds awing, 
By the glad way they flutter round their nests, 

Declare the bliss of Spring. 



23 



"I am the resurrection" — glorious words, 

Crown- jewels of our faith ! 
Yea, Nature's self indubious proof affords, 

That Life is Lord of Death, 
For, when in Spring her wonder-wand she waves, 

And buds begin to swell, 
Repeats she not, at thousand opening graves, 

The Lazarus miracle? 



? 



24 



SPRING BLOSSOMS 

Blossoms of the new year, welcome ! 

Lovely children of the Spring; 
By your beauty, by your perfume, 

To our hearts what joy you bring ! 

In the woodland, in the garden, 
By the wayside, on the mead, 

What a royal feast for Fancy 
Have your fairy fingers spread ! 

Precious things you try to give us, 
When we pass you, heedless, by ; 

Something for the thoughtful spirit, 
Something for the seeing eye. 

Key to mysteries transcendent. 
Even the humblest of you holds, 

Key to many a secret portal, 
Locked, as yet, to human souls. 

How you yearn your lore to tell us ! 

Sacred knowledge to impart, 
In a tongue we could interpret, 

Had we a believing heart. 



25 






Life is endless, ever-present, 

As in stars, so in the dust ; 
In your seeds life was, sweet blossoms, 

Hid 'neath winter's icy crust. 

Therefore, death is a misnomer, 

If by death we mean to say 
That our body, when 'tis buried, 

Is but cold, insensate clay. 

No ! 'Tis true our dust will mingle 
With the mother-dust of Earth, 

But, even then, the life within it 
Knows a mystical re-birth. 

Nature's changeless law obeying, 
Life, immortal life, it craves ; 

And again, transformed, it blossoms, 
Lives in flowers upon our graves. 

And what wisdom, too, you teach us, 
When you whisper, "Dark and dull 

Is the soul of him who heeds not, 
Worships not, the Beautiful." 

God is Truth, and Truth is Beauty, 
Love fulfills itself in Grace ; 

He who loveth Beauty, loveth 
God, and sees Him face to face. 



26 



Blossoms of the new year, welcome ; 

Poor for praise is human speech; 
Lo ! with tears of joy I thank you 

For the sacred truths you teach. 



THE CHURCH OF THE FUTURE 

"Our age's sphere of light, 
Though widening still, is walled around by night; 
With slow, reluctant eye the Church lias read, 
Sceptic at heart, the lesson of its Head." 

— Whit tier. 

'Tis true the world grows wiser every day, 
But error still obscures our heavenward way, 
And shadows darken truth's celestial ray. 

The radiant light of Truth, whose splendors dart 
From every sphere of Science and of Art, 
With lesser glory shines from soul and heart. 

Men worship golden calves, and serpents, still ; 
Keep the Law's letter, but its spirit kill ; 
Slaves to some hierarch's despotic will. 

They cram his purse with gold, and kiss the rod, 
For fear that he might doom them, by a nod, 
To endless hell-fire, in the name of God ! 

False prophets still Heaven's righteous wrath 

provoke, 
And hypocrite, and pharisee, and rogue 
Sit in high places in the synagogue. 

28 



Wolves still, disguised as sheep, make lambs their 

prey, 
Blind lead the blind, to perish by the way, 
And sneaking Judases their Lord betray. 

Striving to chain the free soul that aspires, 
Still Persecution feeds her smouldering fires ; 
To murder Truth, in league are still the Liars. 

In churches still a selfish spirit rules ; 

Men herd themselves in squabbling sects and 

schools, 
And they that doubt are branded knaves or fools. 

They hack their heads with dull polemic swords, 
Fan the fierce flames of hate with windy words, 
And take the Devil's plaudits for the Lord's. 

The world, which God gave to His children all, 
They parcel out in sections, large or small, 
And round each little church-patch build a wall. 

Then, with strange shibboleths, and huckster cries. 
Each claims preemption title to the skies, 
And dub him "heathen" who their claim denies. 

This bigotry, and sect intolerance, 

Makes sharper still the scornful sceptic's lance, 

While Hell applauds the broil with clapping hands. 



29 



Thank God ! Religion is a plant that grows, 

Its perfect flower perennially blows, 

Pure, fragrant, fair as Sharon's sacred rose. 

'Twill rise again from worldly sloughs and 

swamps, 
Cleansed from the poison-stains of dungeon 

damps, 
And burst the bond which still its free growth 

cramps. 

Its sapful bole shall tower, its boughs expand, 

Its fruit divine be known in every land, 

From Iceland's shores to India's palmy strand. 

Majestic Vision ! I can see it rise, 
Flashing celestial glory on mine eyes, 
From where its crown has touched and pierced the 
skies. 

And I, my soul adream beneath this tree, 
This tree of Life and human destiny, 
Behold all nations gather, bond or free. 

Gentile and Jew, the sons of every race — 
God's children all — and, standing face to face, 
They own one God, one Father, and embrace. 



30 



'Twill be the happiest age since time began, 
When men shall build a church on God's own plan, 
Based on Christ's creed — the Brotherhood of Man. 

Its field the world, its doctrine — charity ; 
Then shall the souls of men indeed be free, 
Then will Love's golden age begin to be. 



31 



/ 



THE SOUL AND THE STARS 

When this world's ways wound and vex you, 

When its noise your spirit jars, 
Look into the Blue above you, 

Hold communion with the stars, 
And the tumult and the discords, 

Which have troubled you, shall cease ; 
For, from heavenly founts, upon you 

Will be poured the balm of peace. 

And your thirsty soul will drink it, 

Will revive and bloom again, 
As when on a wilting flower 

Falls the blessing of the rain, 
Put in touch with the eternal, 

By the mystery of the night, 
Conscious of supernal power, 

World-transcending, infinite, 

All that earthly is forgetting, 

Barred by neither space nor time, 
Over starry heights above you, 

Through celestial scenes sublime, 
You shall soar until, alighting 

On some heaven-high peak at last, 
Your clairvoyant spirit, gazing 

At the future, at the past, 



32 



Shall behold the years converging 

Into one Eternity, 
As the earth's divergent rivers 

Blend, at last, within the sea ; 
Then the thought that you, forever. 

Are a part of all you see, 
That what was, what is, what will be. 

Is in you, eternally, 

Shall so rapture, so exalt you, 

That, above all bounds and bars, 
You, in spirit, shall be lifted, 

And enthroned among the stars. 
In the splendor of this vision, 

All eternity in view, 
What is Time — that passing shadow — 

What this little world, to you? 

We are for a moment only 

Tenants in our house of clay ; 
Evermore are voices calling: 

"Pilgrim, tarry not — away !" 
Therefore, when this world's ways vex you, 

When its noise your spirit jars, 
Look into the Blue above you, 

Hold communion with the stars. 



33 



1 



THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE 

The old school-house deserted stands, 

Under the ancient trees, 
Whose mighty arms protect this shrine 

Of sacred memories. 

From sagging roof and moldering walls, 

The cobweb festoons hang ; 
Cracked and rust-eaten is the bell — 

How merrily once it rang ! 

Through open, shattered windows stare 

The stars, like ghostly eyes, 
And deep on benches, desk and .floor, 

The dust of dead years lies. 

Upon the foot-worn sill I stand, 

Where I oft stood of yore, 
In days of childhood — happy days ! 

Gone, gone forevermore. 

I lift the rusty latch, the door 

Swings groaning back ; the room, 

So empty, gloomy, damp and still, 
Seems like a vacant tomb. 



34 



And, as I sadly gaze around, 

Tears gush into mine eyes ; 
A voice that almost breaks my heart, 

Within me groans and cries. 

For, as I look, I see once more 

My school-mates, all are there ; 
The old school-master yonder sits, 

In his high, straight-backed chair. 

His thin gray hair brushed smooth ; his eyes 

So keen, his smile so bland, 
A quill-pen stuck behind his ear, 

The rattan in his hand. 

Yonder are Jim and John, my chums — 

What fun we had, we three ! 
And there's sweet Lizzie Lee, the girl 

That used to smile at me, 

And I'd smile back, or throw at her 

A kiss upon the sly, 
At which she blushed, or would pretend 

To hide her face and cry. 

Yes, every bench is occupied 

By boys and girls, three score, 
All humming like a swarm of bees, 

Their lessons conning o'er. 



35 



J 



Then Jim and John and I recite, 

But I break down — you see 
Lizzie had "made a face" at me, 

And I — loved Lizzie Lee. 

Then suddenly the old bell taps — 

"Recess, recess ! Hurrah !" 
We all rush out, with laugh and shout, 

To run and play ; but — pshaw ! 

I'm only dreaming, dreaming — ah ! 

'Tis forty years and more 
Since the last time my footsteps passed 

The threshold of this door. 

Long, long ago the old man died 
Who used to keep the school ; 

Yon church-yard willows wrap his grave 
In shadows, deep and cool. 

And my old sweetheart, Lizzie Lee, 
And Jim, my dearest chum — 

She married Jim — they sleep there too, 
Their lips in death are dumb. 

And John, and all the other boys 
And girls, O where are they ? 

The most of them are dead, a few, 
Like me, are old and gray. 



36 



I, like a ghost, have wandered back 

To the old school-house door, 
To dream, with tears, of vanished years, 

And be a boy once more. 

God bless you, dear old school-house! Shrine 

Of childhood's sacred joys, 
And, be you living, be you dead, 

God bless you, girls and boys ! 






MY LIBRARY 

This is my kingdom ! Here I sway, 
Uncrowned, unsceptered, day by day, 
A mightier realm, and fairer far, 
Than any ruled by King or Czar. 

Beside the little table, there, 
Behold my throne — an old arm-chair. 
My royal state it well befits — 
No King on his as easy sits. 

In rank and order due aligned, 
There my liege Lords of Heart and Mind 
Meet me, when I have crossed the sill, 
Ready to do their sovereign's will. 

No matter what I wish to know, 
Of heaven above or earth below, 
Some modern Sage or Saint of old 
Will tell me all that can be told. 

What King has nobler retinue, 
Or counsellors more wise and true ? 
Has greater treasure, safe laid by 
For use of heart and soul, than I ? 



38 



Prose-writers, playwrights, poets, wits, 
Strive, in the way which best befits 
The mood I happen to be in, 
My praise, my tears, or smiles to win. 

What care I what the world's about ? 
I close the door and shut it out ; 
What matter strife, or storm or gloom? 
Sunshine and peace are in my room. 

Good books to read, a mind at ease, 

A place to dream in when I please, 

Can I not claim, by right divine, 

My crown and say, "The world is mine?' 



39 



WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE 

When we were twenty-one, O Life, 
How fair you seemed, how glorious ! 
Hope's banner waving- o'er us, 
The whole wide world before us, 

We scoffed at sorrow, laughed at strife — 
When we were twenty-one. 

When we were twenty-one, the flame 
Of Youth's desire burned brightly. 
Fair Fancy's feet tripped lightly, 
To music sweet and sprightly ; 

We dreamt of love, of wealth, of fame, 
When we were twenty-one. 

When we were twenty-one, Romance 

Her glamour shed about us ; 

The doubts that dared to flout us, 

The cares that rose to rout us, 
We slew with Love's celestial lance, 

When we were twenty-one. 

When we were twenty-one, we roved 

Through lands that seemed Elysian, 

Bewitched by many a vision, 

Despite the world's derision ; 
We only knew we lived and loved — 

When we were twenty-one. 



40 



When we were twenty-one, alas ! 
So real looked life's seeming, 
So bright its stars were beaming, 
How could we help our dreaming? 

But what a glorious dream it was — 
"When we were twenty-one. 



41 



J 



THE GENESIS OF THOUGHT 

In fancy go with me unto the hills, 
High-towering o'er the valleys ; on their crests 
The imperishable beauty of the sky 
Gleams like a crown; their verdurous slopes are 

moist, 
At morn and eve, with heaven's anointing dew, 
Freighting the pinioned winds with balmy scents ; 
In the deep-caverned bosoms of these hills 
Lie mysteries of nature, sacred myths, 
Whose meaning never unto mortal ears 
Their stony lips shall utter. 

As we lie 
On the lush mosses, where wild lilies bloom, 
Our musing eyes will catch the crystal gleam 
Of water, trickling from a tiny fount ; 
The glittering streamlet leaps into the light, 
From out the arms of huge, gray-bearded stones ; 
As it glides on, with many a wanton lapse 
And tender kiss, and amorous recoil, 
Winning its way into the living world, 
You might reach down, and with an acorn's cup 
Detain the tiny Naiad in her cell, 



42 



And stifle her faint music ; but the bars 
Yield to the lovely truant ; headlong down 
Precipitous pathways speeding, prone she falls 
Into the lap of the rejoicing fields. 
The infant rill, which with an acorn's cup 
Thou could'st have prisoned in its cradle-lair, 
Or lightly thrust from its appointed path 
With a stray rose-leaf, in its channel cast, 
Now to a laughing rivulet swiftly grown, 
And dancing to its own sweet music, sweeps 
Through gleaming realms of grain, through bosky 

nooks, 
Lit by the fairy-torches of the flowers, 
Through balmy-breathed woodlands, where the 

birds 
Attune their voices to its pilgrim song ; 
Past sunny villages, through smoke-veiled towns, 
Where whirling mill-wheels beat its quivering 

sides, 
And Steam, the giant, on its breast astride, 
Drinks from its limpid depths unfailing power ; 
On, on, with ever-waxing pride it flows, 
A mighty river, rushing to the sea ! 
Its broad, majestic current laves and feeds 
The life and beauty of a hundred lands ; 
Once but a babbling Naiad of the hills, 
She now assumes the stature of a god ; 
On, on the ever-widening Splendor flows, 



43 



Enriched with largess from ten thousand founts, 
Poured from the silver urns of Arctic snows, 
And drinking redolent rains and spicy dews, 
Which south-winds bring her on balm-breathing 

wings 
From tropic isles and groves. 

Soon she will meet 
Imperial Ocean on his azure throne, 
And drop her scepter, as a vassal queen 
At the dread monarch's feet. Into his caves 
Pouring the harvest of her ripened powers, 
With him she shares the sovereignty which holds 
Our wheeling globe in its predestined course, 
Amid the shining spheres which circle it. 
Thus human Thought, slow-gathering, drop by 

drop — 
As in the hill's deep heart a river's fount — 
Shapes into forms of beauty our soul's dreams, 
And fashions them for noblest purposes. 
Out of the dim recesses of the heart 
The living rills of thought leap to the light ; 
Through all the secret channels of the brain 
The crystalline tides of fancy swiftly flow, 
With mellower music than the May-wind charms 
From lily-bells, to welcome home the Spring. 
Not with close-listening heart can we, at first, 
Divine their meaning, nor can apprehend 



44 



The Heavenly Presence in our soul, whose hand 
Shall rift the gloom, at last, with magic touch, 
And take the seal of darkness from our eyes ; 
But from the tongue of Nature, from the air, 
From happy birds, that pour their soul in song ; 
From the gray Spirit of the Mountains, throned 
Majestic in the skies, and crowned with stars, 
From the vast, temple-like, primeval woods, 
Where Nature worships in her vestal robes, 
And praises God at many an odorous shrine ; 
From the life-giving sun, from fern and flower, 
That wreathe the year with beauty — from all these 
Celestial influence shall quick our souls ; 
Aye, from the wild and mystic Knowledge comes : 
From storms that blind the shuddering Night with 

fire, 
From floods and earthquakes ; from the pain and 

woe 
Forever blended with our joys, which make 
The human heart itself more wonderful, 
And stranger in the mysteries of its powers, 
Than all the complex elements which mold 
The form and features of the visible world — 
From all of these the sensate soul obtains 
Celestial sustenance unceasingly, 
Which shall increase her strength to sow the seeds 
Of noble thoughts, and reap their ripened fruits ; 
These shall be gathered by the tide of time, 



45 



And stored away in books, as drifted gold 
Is heaped in the abysses of the sea ; 
And thus a Book becomes the treasury 
Wherein the soul may house immortal wealth, 
May keep the crown and scepter of her state, 
Safe from the ravage of the ruthless years, 
And mint her drossless gold to coin, whose stamp 
Eternity cannot obliterate. 



46 



FORTUNE'S GREATEST GIFT 

Fortune ! out of all thy store 
Give me love — I ask no more ; 
Keep thy gold, thy priceless gems, 
Royal robes and diadems, 
Palaces and grand domains — 
All the pomp that appertains 
To the wealthy and the great, 
Earthly power and pride of state — 
Lack of these no loss will prove, 
To a heart that's rich in love. 

Castle-halls are prison-cells, 

Palaces but gilded hells, 

If suspicion, pride, or hate 

Bar to Love the inner gate ; 

'Neath an humble cottage-roof, 

Where love weaves life's warp and woof, 

Where contentment, truth and peace, 

Ply their heavenly ministries, 

Oftenest is found that bliss 

Which of Heaven's the foretaste is. 



47 



Give me love ; if I but be 
Sure that love abides with me, 
Through the world content I'll fare, 
Crown to win or cross to bear ; 
Whatsoe'er me may betide, 
Love my steps shall safely guide ; 
He who lacketh love, to him 
All the world seems blurred and dim 
He who sees it through Love's eyes, 
Unto him 'tis Paradise. 



48 



RECONCILIATION 

She came when, waked by May-time weather, 
The first rose-buds their leaves unfurled, 

And Hope and Joy and Love together, 
Went singing round the happy world. 

And as she flowered, and slow expanded 
To perfect grace, no charm denied, 

We lived as in some world enchanted, 
Wherein all things seem glorified. 

We did not dream that God had sent her, 

But as a messenger of His, 
To teach our hearts to be more tender, 

To show how holy Beauty is. 

So, when her mission here was ended, 
And God had called her back to Him, 

Our hearts with agony were rended, 
Our eyes with bitter tears were dim. 

And as with faltering feet we bore her 
To her last earthly resting-place, 

And saw the sod heaped darkly o'er her, 
Hiding the glory of her face, 



49 






We turned away with stony faces, 

Refusing to be comforted ; 
"God is not Love, the heart misplaces 

Its trust that thinketh so !" we said. 

But now, ashamed of foolish chiding, 

And grief as vain as it was wild, 
In God with child-like trust confiding, 

Our will with His is reconciled. 

For, had she lived, our hearts' dear treasure, 
Who knows what grief, what pain, what tears, 

What loss no earthly gauge can measure, 
Might have been hers in after years ? 

Now, safe from Time, the rude Despoiler, 
Free from all fear, and pain, and strife, 

Where Death is not, nor sin can soil her, 
Her soul has won immortal life. 

And though we miss her earthly presence, 
We feel, thank God ! that still she holds, 

Through her celestial spirit-essence, 
Divine communion with our souls. 



50 



LIFE AND LOVE 

The seasons come, the seasons go, 
For aye the sea-tides ebb and flow 

O'er rock and shoal and shingle ; 
Years rise and fall and fade away, 
Like sparks and shadow-shapes, that play 

About the flaming ingle. 

The tides flow back to sea and strand, 
Spring comes and wakes the dreaming land, 

Singing her blithesome numbers, 
And, if with patience we will rake 
The ingle's ash, we still may wake 

The fire that in it slumbers. 

But what of human life ? Alas, 

How brief its years ! How swift they pass — 

Gone, like a dream, forever. 
Life's but a dream, a phantasy ; 
Into its sweetest melody 

The harshest discord crashes ; 
Yet there is solace for our dole, 
Love, which is deathless as the soul, 

Survives when hearts are ashes. 



5i 



TALLULAH 

Tallulah, thou art wonderful ! I stand, 

Head bared in reverent awe, to look upon 

Thy majesty and glory, and to hear 

The reverberant, thunderous music of thy voice. 

Upon some dreadful, cataclysmal day, 

Unnumbered, immemorial years ago, 

Did the Earth's womb, torn by volcanic fires, 

In one titanic birth-pang hurl thee forth 

Into the sunlight of primeval skies, 

Leaving thy hot, chaotic mass to cool 

And shape itself to weird and fearful forms ; 

To chasms sinking deep to sunless depths, 

To beetling cliffs, sky-towering, and vast rocks, 

Fissured and scarred by countless years of storms, 

Which thou, to hide the terror of their shapes, 

Hast covered with the green of virgin woods, 

With trailing vines and fragrant wild-flowers, thus 

Tempering thine awfulness with nature's grace? 

Or did thy torrent, in most ancient times, 

Cut with its silver scimitar its way, 

Until, a thousand aeons having passed, 

Thy toiling waters found their present bed, 

Whence to rush roaring eastward to the sea ? 

52 



Imagination wearies of the task 
To trace thine origin, and hence her eye 
Prefers to paint thee as thou art to-day ; 
But who can paint the splendor of thy face ? 
Who tell, in ordered words of verse or prose, 
The feelings that o'erpower with awe the soul, 
Here in thy glorious presence ? 

What am I 
Compared to thee? What all the sons of men 
Since Time began, or men have sat on thrones, 
And founded empires out of this world's dust, 
Only to see them turn to dust again ? 
I am but as a bubble of thy waves, 
My life as brief, my show of strength as vain ; 
Unnumbered generations of my race 
Have floated on the surface of Time's stream, 
And have been swept swift to oblivion's sea ; 
And many myriad generations more, 
Shall follow them and swiftly pass away ; 
Yet, iii the ages passed, thou hast not lost 
One feature of thy glory, nor shalt thou 
Feel, save as shadows cast by flying clouds, 
The unwinged ages that are yet to be. 
Art thou indeed — would I could grasp the 

thought ! — 
Visible, tangible eternity? 



53 



J 



Am I, who stand abashed and overwhelmed 
Before thee, in thy beauty and thy power, 
Indeed so frail, so insignificant, 
As thou, in thy stern, mocking majesty, 
Dost seem to say I am ? 

Nay, mock me not ! 
I am eternal — thou the shadow art 
Of the eternal ; though my body dies, 
And like a bubble disappears from sight, 
The soul that quickens it, that dowers my life, 
Brief though it be, with glory and with power, 
And links it with the deathless and divine, 
This soul shall live, shall grow from strength to 

strength, 
Shall clothe itself with grace and majesty, 
Shall learn all knowledge, know all mysteries, 
Shall, as a power divine, immortal, dwell 
Forever with the Almighty God, when thou, 
Tallulah ! thou that art "the Terrible," 
Shalt meet thy doom, as all things must, and be 
A speck in the wrecked matter of this world. 

Here, in this temple which Nature has planned, 
Has built with her plastic, omnipotent hand ; 
Here, where her spirit, in deep dreams divine, 
Broods o'er her altar, and hallows her shrine, 
Here, in the dusk of these odorous woods, 



54 



The beauty and splendor of hills and floods, 
Enter, my Soul ! Enter in as a king, 
To dream there, to ponder, to pray and sing ; 
Nothing to cumber thee, nothing that bars, 
Nothing between thee and God but the stars ! 
Here thou canst worship Him, sing to Him free, 
Here thou, unblinded, His glory canst see ; 
Hear the flood's thunder His presence proclaim, 
See, writ on daisy leaves, "Love is His name ;" 
Here thou art nearer, my Soul, to God's hand, 
Than in the temples men's frail hands have 

planned ; 
Here there is nothing that cumbers or bars, 
Nothing between thee and God but the stars ! 



55 



J 



AT MANHOOD'S THRESHOLD 

The vague dreams of Boyhood are over, 
Their charm will bewitch you no more; 

To-day you set sail, gallant rover, 
In search of an unknown shore ; 

To a land that seems more Elysian, 

Far richer in beauty and joy 
Than any that dazzled your vision 

When you dreamed the dreams of a boy ; 

There Fortune abides with her treasures, 
Bestowing wealth, honor and fame ; 

There life is a round of all pleasures, 
And grief scarcely more than a name — 

The land of the Future ! It gleameth 
Afar through the night of the years, 

And to the young heart as it dreameth, 
How splendid, how true it appears ! 

O Manhood ! O Hope ! sail together, 

Sail straight for the shore of your dreams, 

Through sunshine, or through stormy weather, 
When never a beacon-light beams ; 

56 



Sail on ! What though storm and disaster 
Hide the shore for a while from view ; 

A brave heart, what can it not master ? 
Your dreams after all may come true ! 



57 



LILY OF THE VALLEY 

lily of the valley, 

So fragrant, pure and fair ! 
For me thy crown of beauty, 

Unchallenged, thou shalt wear; 
My heart shall fondly own thee 

The loveliest of thy race, 
Nor ever shall thy rivals 

Presume to fill thy place. 

1 loved a human flower, 

O sweet and fair was she ! 
She rivalled thee in beauty, 

In grace and purity ; 
Alas, no more her beauty 

With thine to rival vies, 
For Death my flower transplanted, 

To bloom in Paradise. 

O lily of the valley, 

So fragrant, pure and fair ! 
When Death our flower had taken, 

Despite Love's anguished prayer, 
We, for an emblem, plucked thee 

And placed thy shining spray 
Upon her whiter bosom 

As in her shroud she lay. 



58 



Thus were two lilies broken 

By Death's unsparing hand, 
Thus did they pass together 

Into the Silent Land ; 
One, in the grave's drear darkness, 

To wither and decay, 
One, in the light of Heaven, 

To grow and bloom for aye ! 



59 



j 



THE VOICES 

Unto the poet by day, 

And in dreams of the night, 

Voices are calling for aye, 
"Hear us, O poet, write !" 

'Striking, like Orpheus, thy lyre, 
Move the world with its strings ; 

Teach men to hope and aspire, 
Show them the truth of things ; 

'Thine is the mystical might, 
Held of old by the Seers ; 

Look thou, with Sibylline sight, 
Into the Future's years ; 

'Out of the stars in the sky, 

Out of the sounding sea, 
Out of the moments that fly, 

Out of the ages to be, 

'Out of the dreams of the night, 
Out of deeds of the day, 

Calling, we bid thee to write ; 
Poet ! hear and obey." 

60 



ROBERT BURNS 

Burns is not dead ! In sacred earth 
Of the fair country of his birth, 
Beneath its blue and splendid sky, 
Entombed, his hallowed ashes lie ; 
So shared he but the common fate, 
Whereto all men, or soon or late, 
Must yield, and to the earth return 
Their mortal flesh, of woman born ; 

But can we call those dead who still, 

In spirit, sway the world at will, 

And who, by what their genius wrought, 

Still teach the heart and shape the thought 

Of generations, that shall be 

Heirs of their immortality? 

Call them not dead, who thus live on, 

And fame's unfading crown have won. 

And who shall dare deny to thee, 
O Robert Burns ! the right to be 
A peer among this laureled throng? 
Thou peasant bard, thou Prince of Song ! 
Owns not the world thy potence still 
Men's hearts to move, their souls to thrill ? 
Feel they not still the power, the fire, 
The passion, of thy peerless lyre, 



61 



When Love — the world's divinest dream — 

Or Patriotism, is its theme? 

Is there a stream that seeks the sea, 

Is there a flower, on hill or lea, 

Is there a cot, or castle grand, 

In all old Scotia's storied land, 

In which thy spirit liveth not, 

In which thy memory is forgot ? 

All laud thy name with lyric tongue, 

And tell the glory of thy song. 

Burns will be dead when Love is dead, 
When Joy and Song from earth have fled, 
When wit and humor lose their powers, 
To fill with mirth the festive hours ; 
When hearts are dead to hope or fear, 
When Sorrow sheds no secret tear ; 
When Toil and Worth and Truth, no friends 
Shall find, to champion their defense ; 
When Treason shall God's altars stain, 
And Freedom at her shrine is slain ; 
Aye, when the best that life can give, 
Or heart can hope, shall cease to live, 
When Fate's last mandate shall go forth, 
And Death alone is Lord of earth, 
Then is Burns dead ; but, until then, 
He lives, and rules the souls of men. 



62 



CROWNING OUR DEAD 

Let us not with ungovernable sadness 
Look on the face of our beloved dead, 

But rather, in profound and sacred gladness, 
With laurel let us crown the honored head ; 

This laurel-crown shall be to us a token 

Of peace, that triumphed over pain and strife, 

A sign that, though the victor's sword is broken, 
Death has been vanquished by immortal Life. 

True, Death is terrible, in outward seeming ; 

Cold hands that move not, pale and silent lips, 
Eyes, with the light of life and love once gleaming, 

So dark and sightless now in death's eclipse ; 

The grave, the coffin, the dark earth-clods falling 
To hide the face we loved so from our sight — 

This visible vesture, Death ! makes thee appalling, 
Makes thee a ruthless Fate, a ghoul of Night ; 

But 'neath this outward vesture's hideous seeming, 
There lives and moves a form of noble grace, 

For,when Death lifts his mask, behold the beaming, 
The sunlike glory, of an angel's face ! 

63 



Why concentrate the mind's supernal vision 

Only upon the drapery of Death? 
Why doubt the soul's divinest intuition ? 

Why fail to hearken to the voice of Faith ? 

The buried seed doth type the resurrection, 
Upward it strives, and finds new form above ; 

From change to change, to ultimate perfection, 
Unresting, tend the laws of Life and Love ; 

Death, therefore, is but the most strange mutation 
Wherewith all nature is forever rife, 

The power that lifts us unto higher station, 
In the progression of eternal life. 

Let us have faith in God ; trust the All-seeing, 
Whose love's omnipotence the world controls ; 

Somehow, somewhere, the mystery of our being 
Shall be revealed to our enfranchised souls. 

"There is no death, what seems so is transition," 
The poet said, who sang so true and wise ; 

The soul, escaping from its earthly prison, 
Soars to a higher life in happier skies ; 

As Shapes of Light, as spiritual Powers, 
We shall behold our loved ones all, at last, 

Although they fell and faded here like flowers 
Which fall and wither in the winter-blast ; 

64 



Therefore, let us not with a hopeless sadness 
Look on the face of our beloved dead, 

But rather, in profound and sacred gladness, 
With laurel let us crown the honored head ; 

This laurel-crown shall be to us a token 

Of peace, that triumphed over pain and strife, 

A sign that, though the victor's sword is broken, 
Death has been vanquished by immortal Life. 



65 



IN A CITY CEMETERY 

Upon the lush, resilient grass 
The rain-drops dance with tinkling feet, 
And winds make music, flute-like sweet, 
At every tree and flower they pass ; 
But not a single ear, alas ! 
Though once to rapture tuned it was, 
Here heeds the soft, symphonic beat 
Of the glad rain-drops' tinkling feet, 
Or hears the wandering winds, that greet 
With ardent kiss each trembling leaf 
Of tree and flower, ere swift they pass 
Away on wings of song — alas ! 
The Dead are deaf. 

The tireless tongues of nature preach 
Wisdom and beauty everywhere ; 
God's power the tempests typic teach, 
And humble weeds His love declare ; 
The crystal palace of the air, 
When the winged choirs are singing there, 
Is vocal with diviner speech 
Than art of man can ever reach ; 
But nobler still than any which 
Belong to Song's empyrean sphere, 
Are tones of living, human speech, 
Familiar sounds that greet the ear — 
Hark to this voiceful city's hum ! 
Alas, the Dead are dumb ! 
66 



A splendid world of summer bloom 
Displays its glory to the eye ; 
Afar yon purple mountains loom, 
And, nearer, verdant valleys lie ; 
Rose-tinted clouds float slowly by, 
And melt where burns the sun-set sky ; 
The stars their golden thrones resume, 
And swift on twilight's noiseless loom 
Night weaves her robe's resplendent gloom ; 
I dream that angels hover nigh, 
Or softly glide from tomb to tomb, 
Round each a starry wreath to wind — 
Alas ! the Dead are blind. 

But why grieve for the happy Dead ? 

What though the winds and the summer rain 

Breathe song and music all in vain 

Upon the sealed ears of the Dead ? — 

O, patter the grass, soft-footed showers ! 

O winds, make music for trees and flowers ! 

We, the living, will listen and weep — 

Not for the Dead in their graves asleep, 

Who feel not the sunshine, who hear not the rain, 

Deaf to life's music, but free from life's pain — 

For the living, who long for sorrow's surcease, 

For the glory of death, for its infinite peace, 

For these, O Heart, let thy tears be shed, 

Not for the Crowned Ones, overhead, 

The painless, stainless, glorified Dead ! 
67 



Nor mourn, O Heart, because the Dead are dumb, 
And cannot speak aloud to human hearing — 
Is there a bar Faith cannot overcome? 
Lay close thy subtile spirit-ear 
To their mute lips, unfearing, 
And listen thus, then thou shalt hear — 
No word amiss, no harp-string broken — 
The language that in Heaven is spoken, 
And magic music of the Seraph-sphere ; 
Yea, listen unafraid, 
And, in celestial speech, 
With eloquence impassionate 
Beyond our fancy's farthest reach, 
Thou'lt hear them preach and teach, 
These blind, dumb ministers of God, the Dead ! 

Nor mourn because the Dead are blind ; 

Theirs is no fate unkind, 

Because they cannot, now, with fleshly eyes 

Behold the star-wrought splendor of the skies, 

Or summer's bloom, or green of hill and lea, 

Or sun or moon, or glory of the sea, 

For, in a world, compared to which ours is 

But as a taper's light, in an abyss 

Of darkness swinging, and scarce visible, 

Their spirit-eyes on sights far fairer dwell, 

Celestial scenes that shall for aye endure; 

Beholding these, no tear-wet lids shall sheathe 

Their eyes again, nor blinding films of death 

Obtrude, the glorious visions to obscure. 

68 



THE BLESSED MAN 

Possessing Love and Truth, 

What more, pray, canst thou need ? 

Thou hast Life's crown and flower, 
And blest art thou, indeed ; 

With these to make thyself 
In thought and action great, 

Thou art a kinglier man 

Than Caesar, throned in state. 

What though the world should scorn 
Thine aims, and sneer or frown ? 

From its supremer height 
Thy soul looks calmly down 

Upon the world, unmoved 

By what men say or do, 
Awaiting patiently 

The triumph of the True. 

By honest men beloved, 

By thine own conscience praised, 
Thy heart in double mail 

Will ever be encased, 

69 



In touch with things that lie 
Beyond mere bounds of time ; 

Concerned but for the true, 
The deathless, the sublime, 

Thy soul's anointed sight 
Shall light and beauty see, 

Where, to unheeding eyes, 
But darkness seems to be. 

The stars that gem the sky, 
The dust beneath thy feet, 

Shall teach thy soul, and make 
Thy knowledge more complete, 

For he who seeks the Truth 
With honest heart and mind, 

In dust, as in the stars, 
The Holy One will find ; 

What discord seems will blend 
To an harmonious whole, 

When Love and Truth attune 
The music of the soul. 

Therefore the man who serves 
Truth, with a reverent will, 

Who seeks by love alone 
To overcome the ill, 



70 



Who knows that wisdom's ways 

Are the true paths of peace, 
He is the Blessed Man — 
God give his seed increase ! 



n 



TRUE ART 

He does not know Art's highest aim, 

Nor can he win the crown of fame, 

Working on canvas, or in stone, 

Who seeks to please the eye alone ; 

The truest, the supremest art 

So charms the eye, so moves the heart, 

That, thrilled with joy, or touched with woe, 

Feeling's deep fountains overflow. 

Into his palette's blending hues 
The painter must his soul infuse, 
If he would see in form and face 
His picturing art's divinest grace ; 
That sculptor, too, in vain has wrought 
Who in his marble carves no thought ; 
To give a soul unto his stone 
He must breathe into it his own. 

That art is shallow which but strives 
To show the surface of our lives ; 
The outward, transient charms of grace, 
The loveliest lines of form and face 
Give but brief pleasure to the eye, 
Foredoomed, their beauty blooms to die, 
Frail as the filmy mist-veils spun, 
At twilight, by the setting sun. 



72 



Pure art is Soul made manifest, 

Is Truth, in Beauty's garments drest ; 

He is the artist, great and true, 

Who knows best how to blend the two, 

Creating, in inspired mood, 

In Truth's verisimilitude, 

Ideal forms, wherein we see 

The embodiment of Deitv. 



73 



A NOBLE LIFE 

To rail at Misfortune is human, 

She scourges the rich and the poor ; 
'Tis godlike in man or in woman 

Unflinching her stripes to endure ; 
Who meets with faith's steadfast assurance 

Life's troubles, the great and the small, 
And bears them with patient endurance, 

Will finally conquer them all. 

The coward will cringe and be pliant, 

Will bend like a reed to the blast, 
The hero, rock-rooted, defiant, 

Stands firm and unmoved to the last ; 
'Tis the moral of song and of story 

That cowards soon die in their shame, 
But heroes live on in their glory 

And ages make broader their fame. 

Not always in earth's proudest stations 

Are the grandest of victories won, 
In God's eyes the poor man's probations 

Count more than what kings may have done ; 
We honor the martyrs who, blameless, 

Through sufferings have triumphed of yore, 
But what of those martyrs who, nameless, 

Die daily in sight of your door ? 



74 



They pour not their blood in libation 

On glorified altars of Faith, 
Nor rush with a warrior's elation 

In battle to triumph or death; 
Unseen and in humblest disguises 

The deeds of their glory are done ; 
With duty's meek self-sacrifices 

Are the crowns of their martyrdom won. 

He who in his daily wayfaring 

Keeps an honest, brave heart in his breast, 
Too noble is he to be caring 

For title, for crown, or for crest ; 
Why suffer his mind to be troubled 

For the lack of these paltry things — 
Stands he not, by his manhood ennobled, 

A peer in the presence of Kings ? 

He best knows the wisdom and beauty 

Of life in its loftiest plan 
Who, in the great battles of Duty, 

Is found at his post in the van ; 
Who bears, hero-like, uncomplaining, 

The losses and wounds of the strife, 
And wins, meaner prizes disdaining, 

The crown of a noble life. 



75 



GROWING OLD 

I'm growing old, and yet no fear 
Of death or grave appals me ; 

Still, as in days of youth, the dear 
Sweet love of life enthrals me ; 

And still my spirit gladly hears 

The music of the flying years. 

I'm growing old ; my hands, my limbs 
Less supple are, less light; 

And sometimes a strange mist bedims — 
By tears begot — my sight, 

But still with steady steps my soul 

Fares bravely on toward her goal. 

I'm growing old ; Life's tree has shed 

Its blossoms long ago; 
The winds that blow about my head 

Are chill with sleet and snow, 
Yet they, in some mysterious way, 
Still bring the violet scent of May. 

I'm growing old ; alas ! so far 

My youth behind me lies, 
It seems to be a phantom-star 

In dream-imagined skies, 
And yet one touch of Memory's wand 
Transports me to youth's fairy-land. 

76 



I'm growing old — how swiftly flies 
Time's shuttle through the loom ! 

Weaving before my very eyes 
My garment for the tomb ; 

Yet fear I not, nor feel I pain, 

Beyond the grave I'll live again ! 



77 



A WAYSIDE FLOWER 

Only a wayside flower — 
And yet how rich a dower, 
Beyond the wealth of kings, 
God gives to humblest things ! 

Come hither, and behold 
Its coronet of gold, 
Its slight stem's supple grace, 
Its robe of fairy-lace ; 

Upon its breast are borne 
The bridal-gifts of Morn, 
Diamonds and precious pearls, 
Fairer than any Earl's ; 

With hues of sea and sky 
Its radiant colors vie; 
A star seems shining through 
Each pendent drop of dew ; 

Some mystery divine, 
Some essence, rare and fine, 
In sunshine and in dew, 
Its life, its growth renew. 

78 



What holy thoughts and high 
In its deep calyx lie ! 
What sweet philosophy 
Its beauty teaches me ! 

Within this lowly flower 
I see the selfsame Power 
That, through eternal years, 
Quicks all the starry spheres, 

And the same Hand divine, 
That formed this flower so fine, 
Has builded, course on course, 
The cosmic universe ; 

The same unstinting Love, 
That sates the skies above, 
And our world's hunger feeds, 
Supplies its simple needs. 

Not more the heavens declare 
God's glory everywhere, 
His wisdom, love and power, 
Than does this fragile flower, 

The creature of a day, 
Which o'er this weedy way, 
And waste of worthless things, 
Transfiguring glory flings. 

79 



Thus, often, modest Worth — 
That noblest thing on earth — 
In some neglected place 
Hideth its shining face, 

By all, save God alone, 
Unhonored and unknown, 
But, master of its fate, 
It works, content to wait 

In patient trust, until, 
Conforming to God's will, 
In flower and fruit unfurled, 
It glorifies the world. 



80 



STREET SPARROWS 

"Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one 
of them shall not fall on the ground without your 
Father." — Matt. 10:29-5. 

Is there a thing about you 

That would for praise be meet, 

You little noisy Nomads, 
Winged Arabs of the street ? 

You wear no pretty plumage, 

You have no voice to sing — 
Xo wonder men despise you, 

Poor Ishmaels of the wing! 

Who would, when larks are singing, 

Hark to your shrilling cry, 
Or heed your weak wings' flutter 

When eagles mount the sky ? 

And yet, you bold and cunning, 

Pert vagrants of the street, 
The lesson that you teach us, 

How tender, true, and sweet ! 

Methinks I hear you saying : 

"Behold ! though weak and small, 

Without our Father's knowledge 
Not one of us shall fall ; 

81 



"The mighty Hand that holdeth 
The planets in their place, 

Sustains the little sparrow, 
And guides her simple ways ; 

"Do not despise the humble — 
God loves both low and high ; 

His glory shines in dew-drops, 
As in the starry sky ; 

"With never-ceasing kindness 
He cares for man and beast ; 

His providence embraces 
The greatest, and the least ; 

"Leave, then, to the Almighty, 
The Lord of life and death, 

Whatever may betide you, 
In childlike trust and faith ; 

"Remember that our Father, 
Who heeds a sparrow's fall, 

Has in his loving bosom, 
Room for His children all." 



82 



THE VOICE OF GOD 

Out of the stars, out of the sod, 

Direct and clear, 
The voice of omnipresent God 

Our souls can hear; 

Day and the glory of the night 

Declare its power ; 
It clothes with grace, and fills with light, 

The humblest flower ; 

We hear it in the skylark's strain, 

The wren's low cry, 
It thunders in the hurricane 

That shakes the sky ; 

It roars when lightning smites and rifts 

The oak-tree's crown ; 
It sighs in wind that scarcely lifts 

A thistle's down ; 

But not from nature's lyre alone, 

From star or sod, 
We hear, in wondrous undertone, 

The voice of God ; 

83 



'Tis heard in every master-tongue 

And master-pen 
That thrills with speech, or soothes with song, 

The hearts of men ; 

It speaks from earth's unnumbered graves, 

And what it says 
Makes of a Caesar's, or a slave's, 

A holy place ; 

It is the spirit that inspires, 

The power that molds, 
The deathless, the divine desires 

Of all great souls ; 

Happy the reverent heart that heeds 

In star or sod — 
Careless of clash of clamorous creeds — 

The voice of God ! 



34 






DO THOU THY BEST 

Do thou thy best ; to always do our best 
Is of our character the highest test ; 
The world's sublimest triumphs have been won 
When God-inspired men their best have done ; 
Do thou thy best. 

Do thou thy best ; go bravely on thy way, 
Nor care for what a captious world may say ; 
The world is often wrong ; an honest breast 
And quiet conscience are a surer test ; 
Do thou thy best. 

Do thou thy best ; not with mere selfish aim, 
To win success in power, in wealth or fame, 
These, in their way, are good in the world's sight, 
But it is better to be true and right ; 
Do thou thy best. 

Do thou thy best, and having done it, thou 
Hast won the victor's laurel for thy brow, 
Thou art a hero, though the world's acclaim 
Be not for thee, nor her false, fickle fame ; 
Do thou thy best. 



Do thou thy best ; not for this present time 
We live and labor ; motives more sublime 
Than mere success in worldly aims control 
The mightiest powers of the immortal soul ; 
Do thou thy best. 

Do thou thy best, so canst thou lay thy head 
In perfect peace upon thy dying bed, 
Assured that God, who knows what thou hast done, 
Will grant the crown which thou hast rightly won ; 
Do thou thy best. 



86 



THE POET AND HIS SONGS 

'Tis true the poet's form must pass away ; 
But that which he to future ages gives — 
The spirit of his songs — forever lives ; 
The essence of the soul knows no decay ; 
Beauty and Love and Truth are deathless things, 
And out of these the poet makes his songs, 
Which, wafted round the world on Music's wings, 
Proclaim their message in a myriad tongues ; 
Poets who consecrate to Truth their lyres, 
And live themselves the songs they sing, are they 
Who utterance give to man's divine desires, 
And win from Fame a fadeless crown of bay ; 
He who sings thus, can his songs perish ? Never — 
The poet in his songs will live forever. 



37 



THE CZAR 

Death-shadowed scion of despotic Czars ! 
What profit thee thy scepter and thy crown, 
The splendors, blazoning thy high renown, 
Palace and court, and spoil of sanguine wars ? 
Show me in all thy realm a rustic clown 
Would give his hovel for thy gilded bars ! 
What would'stthou give, thou terror-haunted King, 
For that with which thy meanest hind is blest ? — 
Bright days of peace and nights of perfect rest ; 
For freedom of a bird upon the wing, 
For faith, for love of an unselfish breast, 
Or aught that makes of life a blessed thing. 
I pity thee, thou death's-head mask of State, 
Mock Majesty! perched on a shaking throne, 
Unable even to call thy life thine own ; 
Sharp-sighted, sleepless, are the eyes of Hate — 
For blood unrighteous shed thine must atone, 
Thou canst not hide thee from the doom of Fate. 



88 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 

We will not wound his spirit by reciting 
The sins and errors of his earthly ways, 

Whose Upas shadows still his name are blighting, 
Nor stain with slander's spume his poet-bays ; 

"No further seek his merits to disclose, 

Nor draw his frailties from their dread abode, 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose), 
The bosom of his Father and his God !" 

Let Pharisees, the "unco guid" and pious, 
Hurl harsh anathemas upon his head, 

And ghoulish critics, kin to Ananias, 
Revile the memory of the laureled dead ; 

A nobler task be ours ; a theme more pleasing 
With gentler feelings shall our hearts inspire ; 

Let us, from Discord's bonds our minds releasing, 
Feel but the thraldom of his magic lyre. 

From shadowy shores of Pluto's realm infernal 
The Raven comes, and croaks his "nevermore !" 

And robed in light and loveliness supernal, 
The Shade appears whom angels name"Lenore." 

89 



Again for us the poet's fancy peoples 

With phantom forms the horror-haunted dells, 

Or bids the spirits, dwelling in the steeples, 
Pour golden floods of music from the bells. 

With him we roam, in mood sedate and sober, 
The woods, beneath October's skies of gloom, 

And at a tomb, "by the dark tarn of Auber, 
Hear Psyche read the legend, "Ulalume." 

Once more we see the lurid splendor gleaming 
From the "strange city," which Death's own 
shall be ; 

Lie in the grave with him, of "Annie" dreaming, 
Or her who sleepeth "by the sounding sea" ; 

Thus moved, and guided by this mighty master, 
Our souls enthralled by his resistless will, 

Through scenes of mystic glory or disaster, 
We mount with him the Muses' sacred hill, 

Where what was godlike in him, and which never 
Can be denied him now, nor soiled with shame — 

His glorious genius, — has been shrined forever 
In the white temple of eternal Fame. 



90 



GENIUS 

Like a caged eagle, Genius beats his wings 
Against the bars of Fate, in dumb despair ; 
He longs to breathe again his native air, 
And quench his hot thirst at Pierian springs ; 
But, mated vilely with this world's base things, 
Forced his celestial birth-right to forswear, 
Here he must bide his doom, endure, forbear, 
Till Death shall come and end his sufferings ; 
And yet, O martyred Genius ! chained, confined, 
Beating thy wings against thy prison-bars, 
Think of the glory that shall yet be thine — 
The boundless power, the influence divine, 
That shape the world, and sway the human mind — 
Reserved, for such as thee, beyond the stars ! 



oi 



HENRY TIMROD 

Written in a copy of the Memorial edition of Timrod's 
Poems. 

Poet ! if still, where now thy spirit is, 
Thou, sometimes, art permitted to look back 
Upon thine earth-life's brief and thorny track, 
Stained dark with blood-drops of thine agonies, 
I think a glint of joy, not all unmeet 
Even for the glory of thy heavenly state, 
Thrills thee, to see the world at last, though late, 
Laying rare love-gifts gladly at thy feet. 
Yes, thou hast triumphed, Timrod ! Looking down, 
Thou'lt see how thy life's sorrow-darkened days 
Now shine like stars, to glorify thy grave, 
And that, in pay for gifts thy genius gave, 
Within this book, as in a shrine, men place 
The precious jewels of thy poet-crown. 



SIDNEY LANIER 

A crystal prism place before your eye, 

Letting the Sun-god's lances pierce it through — 

A marvelous vision is revealed to you ! 

Through blending colors gazing, you descry 

A thousand radiant rainbows in the sky ; 

The common earth has faded from your view ; 

A world, in Eden glory robed anew 

By God's own hand, before you seems to lie. 

This types, for me, the glorifying powers 

Of thy pure verse, O crystal-souled Lanier ! 

For Truth thy pen did holy warfare wage, 

It was Ithuriel's spear, though wreathed with 

flowers ; 
Thy virgin Muse recalls Art's golden age, 
Its music in thy classic song we hear. 



93 



WALT WHITMAN 

In substance noble, though in form bizarre, 
Nor heeding ancient rule or modern use, 
Because high mood is her sole guide, thy Muse, 
Winged with cyclonic power, swoops from her 

star, 
When she would rid the earth of woeful wrongs, 
And calls on men, in strident trumpet-songs, 
'Gainst crime and vice to wage heroic war ; 
Fierce phrases hurling, which like lightning flame, 
She shatters shams and idols, fain to free 
From shackles and the curse of social shame, 
The Spirit of divine Democracy — 
Is it for this smug critics seek to mar, 
Whitman, thy fame, and call thy work uncouth? 
Thine is the majesty of naked Truth ! 



94 



TO A CAGED EAGLE 

How are the mighty fallen ! A cruel fate 

Lured thee from thy free home above the clouds 

Into a fowler's snare ; to see thee now 

Cooped in a cage, like some base barnyard fowl, 

For curious eyes to stare at, and to be 

Mark for rude sport and jest of gaping crowds, 

Is shameful mockery of fallen power 

That silent mourns its discrowned majesty. 

Proud monarch of the air ! I pity thee ! 
I feel the spirit of thy royal race 
Flashing upon me from thy flaming eyes, 
And in the quivering of thy massive wings 
Read how thy throbbing heart is yearning for 
The wild, sweet freedom of thy native skies. 
Thou art the offspring of a race which sat 
Among the gods of old ; their talons grasped 
The thunder-bolts of the Olympian Jove, 
Symbols of universal sovereignty ; 
Perched on the standards of imperial Rome, 
They led her conquering legions round the world ; 
Upon the battle-banner staffs of France 
They spread their golden wings of victory, 
And saw the imperious Corsican subdue 
And humble Europe, till his blazing star 
Fell like a meteor, and dropped from sight ; 



95 



And from their cloud-zoned mountain-nests they 

flew 
To greet the rising sun of Liberty 
When first its beams, athwart the Atlantic's waves, 
Shot flaming westward, lighting beacon fires 
Of Freedom in the land of Washington ; 
They fanned these sacred fires with tireless wings, 
Till on the world a wondrous glory fell 
When a new Nation's birth-star crowned the skies. 

Yes, fallen one ! thou art the symbol yet 

Of the omnipotence of liberty, 

Of sovereign power, that brooks no despot's will. 

America, on her starred banner, bears 

Thy golden image ; she points up to thee 

As the bright emblem of her peaceful power, 

But, when it needs must be, she sternly lifts 

Above the legions of the free thy form, 

And these, through battle-storm, and smoke and 

flame, 
Thou leadest ever on to victory ! 

Would I could see thee soar into the sky, 
Cleaving the air, the clouds, with mighty wings, 
Sunward thy bold flight urging, till the earth 
Seemed to thy sight a glimmering, dwindling 

speck, 
Thus once more entering thy native realm 
Of infinite space, to dwell therein supreme, 

96 



Companionless, or till, to meet thy mate, 
Thou swoopest earthward, silently and swift, 
To gain thy mountain-eyrie, some lone peak 
Piercing the clouds, and capped for aye with snow, 
An ancient throne of thy imperial race. 

Alas, as thou art now, forlorn, discrowned, 
Despoiled of all thy glory, and in vain 
Flashing indignant scorn upon thy foes, 
Who heed it not, I see in thee a type 
Of many a noble, struggling human soul — 
Of souls that Fate has bound in iron bonds 
Of sorrow and despair, and so are made, 
Unmerited, the prey of misery 
Which feeds upon itself ; souls that in vain 
Tug at unyielding chains, while grinning fools 
Stare at the piteous sight, and heedlessly, 
Or with a sneer, the callous world goes by. 

Thank God, that Death, the welcome messenger, 
All-pitiful, all-merciful, and just, 
Descends at last and ends the tragedy ; 
With one swift blow upon the aching heart 
He frees the imprisoned spirit from its bonds, 
And bids it soar, rejoicing and redeemed, 
Back to its native realm above the stars, 
Where time can nevermore impair its powers, 
Nor evil Fate despoil its majesty, 



97 



Nor dark Misfortune curse it with despair ; 
But where, secure of its divine estate, 
It sits enthroned upon celestial heights, 
A holy, blessed, and immortal thing. 






98 



BIRD SONG AT SEA 

"Thirty-six thousand song-birds, from different lands, 
consigned to New York, were on board of the Hamburg 
liner Patricia. During a dreadful storm they suddenly 
burst into song, and during the remainder of the voyage 
the passengers were kept happy by the sweet melodies of 
these little songsters." — News Item. 

Hark ! is it fairy music 

That rings so clear and free, 
Amid the storm-wind's roaring, 

The thunder of the sea ? 

I close mine eyes and listen — 

What magic tricks are these ? 
I seem to see green meadows, 

Valleys, and hills, and trees, 

And hark, the sky-lark ! soaring 

To greet the dawning day ; 
With song the world seems ringing, 

Surely it must be May ! 

For every bird that buildeth 

A nest in hedge or tree, 
In north-lands and in south-lands, 

Joins in the jubilee — 

LOfC. 90 



Nay, Fancy doth deceive you, 

And witchery of song; 
You are but one of hundreds 

Who round these cages throng, 

Where myriads of winged songsters, 

With madrigal and glee, 
Out-sing the storm-wind's roaring, 

The thunder of the sea. 

How can you do it, birdlings ? 

Warbling so blithe and free, 
Here, where no gleam of sunshine 

Cheers your captivity ? 

The answer to the question 

Comes in your song to me : 
Your hearts are full of sunshine, 

Sweet singers of the sea ; 

What thoughts, what dreams and visions 
For those who round you throng, 

Are in the plaintive cadence, 
Or rapture of your song ! 

Ah, if the hidden meaning 
Of smiles and tears you knew, 

Their hopes, their fears, dear singers ! 
Of those who list to you, 



ioo 



Then would you know that something 

Divine in Song- must be, 
And why a thousand blessed you 

For singing while at sea ! 



IOI 



OLD SONGS 

I love the old, old songs, 

The songs I used to hear 
From lips that have been dumb 

In death for many a year ; 
I love their tender words, 

Set to some simple air, 
That lacks the master's skill, 

But heart and soul are there. 

When Music spreads her wings 

To soar beyond the stars, 
And with her golden keys 

The gates of Heaven unbars, 
I wonder at the flight, 

The power of classic art, 
And yet the old, old songs 

Are dearer to my heart; 

Ah, when my soul feels sad, 

When in mine eyes are tears, 
And memory recalls 

The joys of vanished years, 
Then to my brooding brain 

Come dreams, in countless throngs, 
But dearest of them all 

Are dreams of old, old songs. 



102 



QUATRAINS 

AMBITION VS. CONTENT 

Ambition oft his luring goal will miss, 
Or, gaining it, will curse his own success ; 

God ! grant me content, I ask but this, 
Nor care for more — content is happiness. 

THE WORLD 

1 asked, "What is the world?" and you replied, 
"Myself and you, by millions multiplied." 

I said, "If what you say indeed be true, 
The w T orld is what we make it, I and you." 

TO A MODERN DIOGENES 

I heard thee say, "I seek an honest man" ; 
Would we find one, were thy torch turned on thee ? 
O cynic friend ! 'twere much the wiser plan 
If thou that sought for honest man wouldst be. 

DUTY 

Executor of God's almighty will ! 
Thou, who His laws forever dost fulfill, 
O, hold my heart, my will, in thy control, 
And stamp thy sacred seal upon my soul. 

103 



THE TRUE LIFE 



When we do all the good that we can do, 
Then to ourselves and God are we most true 
Thus is the Christ made manifest in man, 
And life is lived on Life's divinest plan. 



THE BIBLE 

Three Powers divine abide for aye in thee : 
Truth, in whose spirit men are wise and free ; 
Law, whose decrees benign all things obey ; 
And Love, that points to Heaven and leads the way. 

MY CREED 

Let canting priests, with brimstone hell and devil, 
Deceive and scare a credulous multitude; 
Christ's creed sufficeth me : Avoid the evil, 
Seek truth, love God and man, and do the good. 

PERFECT LOVE 

Serve God and man, love truth and righteousness, 
If these, more than thy life, thou holdest dear, 
Nor death, nor future, shall thy soul distress — 
Thine is "the perfect love that casts out fear." 



104 



THE INEXPRESSIBLE 

In music there are mystic tones and chords 

No mortal ever hears ; 
So in the heart bides bliss, too great for words, 

And grief, too deep for tears. 

SORROW AND LOVE 

Sorrow and Love ! All who have felt and seen 
them 
Know well that these, in essence, are the same ; 
They have, in suffering, but one heart between 
them, 
They are alike, and differ but in name. 

SEA AND NIGHT 

Majestic, dreadful, vast, mysterious Sea, 
Thou symbol of illimitable Might! 

What rival hath thy glory, save it be 

The awful splendor of thy face, O Night ! 

TRUTH 

As well expect to find stability 
In winds and waves, as truth in fickle man ; 
Wouldst thou have truth ? try an unfailing plan ! 
Ask God for it, and truth will come to thee. 



105 



THE GOLDEN ROD 

Autumn's rich guest, Prince Golden Rod, 
The royal almoner of God, 
Who scatters with a lavish hand. 
His gifts of gold o'er all the land. 

THE ROSE 

Sweet rose ! All flowers that deck the rural scene, 
That bloom in gardens, or that scent the grove, 
Admit thy peerless charms, and own thee Queen, 
Thou synonym and bodied soul of Love ! 

THE LILY 

God made thee white and fair, to be 

In form and face, 
Pattern and type of purity 

And maiden grace. 

BEAUTY 

To the wise mind, the meditative eye, 
Beauty is always holy — know you why? 
Because in Beauty we reflected see, 
As from a glass, the face of Deity. 



106 



GENIUS 

Only in the eternal, Genius lives. 

All worlds are his, all time is in his ken, 

God giveth him the power, wherewith he gives 

Wisdom and truth and glory unto men. 

STARS AND WEED- FLOWERS 

The stars which we see blossom into light, 
In the celestial garden of the Night, 
And yonder weed-flowers in the meadow-sod, 
But show in different ways thy glory, God ! 

WILD VIOLETS 

Shy woodland nuns ! who shun the world's bold 

eyes, 
In secret offering incense to the skies, 
You are a type of self-effacing Worth, 
Which is content, unseen, to bless the earth. 

LIGHT IN DARKNESS 

As in the gloom of even the darkest night 
Unseen abides the Dawn's preludial ray, 
So in the gloom of grief some spark of light 
Survives, assuring Joy's returning day. 



107 



A QUESTION 

My Soul ! ere you lived in my mother's womb, 
Were you a Soul elsewhere, in sun or star? 
What mortal tongue can answer? Who presume 
To prove the may-have-been by what we are ? 

GENIUS AND ART 

I hold it true that Genius is divine, 

That inspiration moves it to create, 

But still, the work it does Art must refine, 

And, through perfection, make it truly great. 

FAME 

Is it worth while to barter life for fame? — 
The winged, illusive phantom of a name, 
The echo of a sound that dies at last, 
Lost in ghost-haunted deserts of the Past. 

LIFE 

We grieve because existence seems as brief 
As that of leaves the storm strips from a tree, 
But we deceive ourselves by that belief, 
For life is palpable Eternity. 



108 



POETRY 

She is embodied Beauty; she is Truth; 
Death dreads she not — hers is immortal youth ; 
Her speech is song ; who hears her singing, hears 
The voice of God, and music of the spheres. 

EXILED 

Her treasures stolen, or scattered o'er the ground, 
Summer departs, an exiled Queen, discrowned; 
Behind her trumpets sound and cymbals ring, 
And voices shout, "Hail, Autumn ! Hail the 
King!" 

HOPE 

Hope, the Illusionist and Dreamer, sees 
Roses abloom, and fruit on all the trees, 
When winter's here ; and she will dream of bliss 
Even when the heart is crushed with agonies. 

FAITH 

If we had faith, faith in our inmost soul, 
Faith true as is the needle to the pole, 
Faith in ourselves, and in the heavenly Powers, 
What strength for conquering all things would be 
ours ! 



ICQ 



BEAUTY AND POETRY 



Beauty and Poetry ! we trace their source, 

From star to sod, 
To the great Poet of the universe, 

Almighty God. 



no 



AU6 27 \m 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 



HHHSlISBfiK 

ill 


LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

imniHiiiii 

015 762 287 ±,M 



